Young Writers Society

**NOTE: I would like to warn that this chapter contains a death, but most importantly I would like to remind this was for NaNoWriMo, meaning to varying degrees, Butterfly Wings was thoughtlessly typed out trying to reach a word count.**

The tunnel was looming and empty, cut with streaking scratches in the dull gleam of the concrete, and the platform was smooth and still as a pane of glass, save a skittering of crumpled candy wrappers on the pavement, or a rattle of empty tin soda cans rolling in the drafts. Rippling coats of butterfly wings dripped up from the cracks, fluttering like coppery flakes of rust. They dripped water, letting a crystal drop plop onto the floor and echo about the walls, like stalactites in a slick limestone cave. The only other sound was the sound of my footsteps knocking on the iron subway tracks, and an orange package of peanut butter cups crinkling in my hand.

Starling’s feet and shins were still very tender, and she stepped lightly. The burns had flared red and split with blisters. Daffodil had dribbled water from an empty soda bottle over them, and then a waxy layer of balm from a tin. Aaron had bandaged it in a fresh T-shirt he’d found, and plastered the cuts with pockmarked band-aids. The burns still hurt, but they were healing.

tap

tap

tap

Her footsteps echoed on the iron rails. She kept thinking she heard something thundering down the tracks, but when she listened closer there was nothing. Fragments of decayed memory floated in the cold, damp air like cobwebs, of a metal train rushing through like a bullet, like a silver bubble in a glass of coca-cola sucked up through a straw.

But there was nothing now. Except the butterfly wings.

They continued to drip, leaking liquid down the walls and onto the floor like rain, and pooling in puddles, that melted together into larger puddles, that leaked into each other and covered the floor with a coat of water. Things floated in the water like dead fish, glossy leather purses and empty water bottles and rinkling plasticky jackets. An inflatable raft stretched in oranges and bright color glided past, with the calm of a mallard duck looking for floating chunks of bread thrown by the lakeside children. She slid onto it and began to paddle with her hands. The water was rising, and she didn't want it to wash away the balm on her feet.

For a while it was just her and her raft, on the water, floating in the darkness. The rubber stretched under her legs, rippling with rubbery tubes of pale neons like fruit peel. It dipped around where she sat, but it held.

She came to another platform, another empty subway platform, drifting with old drafts. Drifting with drafts, and with the uncomfortable emptiness, of almost being able to see masses of people that were not there, and almost being able to hear sounds that were not there. Residue of a different time.

She climbed up from the raft to the platform and sat on the edge, the edge that all the signs said not to sit on. It was cold and hard. Dim light danced on the water rippling below.

Starling opened her package of peanut butter cups. The crackly orange tore easily. She peeled open the other one and then the third, then took out a peanut butter cup between her thumb and forefinger. It felt soft and waxy and was a rich brown, with crinkly edges in a lace like frilly hemlock blossoms, or the flowery tissue-paper rim of a pastel muffin cup. There were pale crumbs that rubbed off on her fingers. She licked her lips and chucked it out across the water.

plip plip plip plip plip plip plip plip plip

It skipped across the water like a stone, skimming off the surface and leaving a trail of ripples. It didn't sink. Someone caught it in their palm.

There was someone on the opposite platform. A boy, young, with glossy black hair and a hoodie that rippled over his arms. Butterfly wings sprouted from under his sleeves and the inside of his shirt collar. He pressed the peanut butter cup between his fingers and looked at her dully.

"Hello." she said with a smile.

"Are you the cryptid?" He asked. "I've heard stories about you. Your face is blurred out on all the security cams."

"Yes," she said, rustling again in the candy wrappers.

Ferris bit off half of the peanut butter cup. The chocolate crackled under his teeth and split into fragments. He pushed it down his throat.

"So, little boy, what's your name?"

"Written words say it's Ferris."

"Mm." She skipped another cup. He caught it and swallowed it.

The crackly, split wrappers littered Starling's feet like orange peels and gleamed in the dimness.

"So, Ferris, what have you been up to lately?"

The last crumbs of peanut butter cup disappeared down his throat.

"I've been building a mountain.”

Starling nodded, with the air of one discussing the weather.

“I've been looking all over the city for stones,” he continued. “For hunks of rock, and been fitting them into a mountain. A mountain, so I may relive my photograph, a thousand times over.”

"Cool, cool." Another peanut butter cup skipped across the water. Ferris watched it sink.

"I've been building it brick by brick. It's only the foundation, but it’s tall."

"Oh, that thing! I saw it around the bridge. I was wondering what it was." She took another peanut butter cup from the pile, and spun it across the concrete floor like a top. "You built all that yourself?"

"Stones are everywhere," he said, his eyes glazed. "Yes, I built it myself, out of pieces, building corners and sidewalks."

Starling chucked another peanut butter up over the water.

plip plip plip plip plip plip plip plip plip

Ferris again caught it and ate it. 

* * *

Aaron’s feet were bare, and the floor was cold. They had cuts on them from broken glass and sticky residue from melted gum. He was folded over. “My shoes,” whispered. “I forgot my shoes.”

“Where, Aaron?” said Daffodil.

“That way,” he said, pointing. His voice was cracked and hollow like a broken vase. “It’s so dark. Just so dark.”

Daffodil looked down the tunnel. She couldn’t see anything.

Starling was sprawled on the bench, absentmindedly nibbling on a peanut butter cup. A blanket rippled over her legs, and the bulging roof of sheet brushed the top of her head, casting milky shadows on the slats.

“I’ll go get his shoes.” she said. “How hard could it be?”

“Just take the hot water bottle.”

“Yeah yeah sure.” She zipped up her hoodie and slid off the platform onto the tracks. She didn’t grab the hot water bottle. “Wish me luck.”

tap

tap

tap

Her footsteps echoed on the iron rails, as she tiptoed on it like a balance beam. There were more and more butterfly wings growing from the walls. She kept thinking she heard something thundering down the tracks, but when she listened closer there was nothing. Fragments of decayed memory floated in the cold, damp air like cobwebs, of a metal train rushing through like a bullet, like a silver bubble in a glass of coca-cola sucked up through a straw.

But there was nothing now. Nothing but the shadows that were getting thicker and the air that was getting colder.

tap

tap

tap

The whispers were getting louder. They swirled in her ears like steam and brushed her skin with their damp fingers.

tap

tap

tap

She could see Aaron’s shoes. She picked them up. It was cold. It was so cold. It was dark, a thick darkness that roared in her ears.

She suddenly felt empty hair whistling her fingers. She realized she hadn’t brought the hot water bottle. And the shadows knew.

Looks like you forgot.

What a shame.

There’s nothing to keep you afloat.

You’re going to drown.

What a shame.

What a shame.

What a shame.

She tried to keep walking. Her limbs felt heavy, and the shadows clung to her like molasses. Her muscles felt frozen. But she managed to keep pulling one leg in front of the other. Getting his shoes for him. The ground was too cold for bare feet.

You thought you shouldn’t be scared of us.

You were so arrogant. So cocky.

You still are. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You got a little too comfortable.

You’ve been a thorn in our side long enough.

You can feel it, right?

Your approaching death?

Your approaching failure?

To even do what your death was for?

She kept staggering on. The shadows were getting louder.

WHY ARE YOU STILL WALKING?

STOP.

WHY ARE YOU STILL LOOKING?

YOU KNOW YOU WON’T FIND HIS SHOES.

YOU KNOW YOU WON’T MAKE IT BACK.

STOP.

STOP RIGHT NOW.

It was hard to think. It was so cold.

YOU WON’T SURVIVE!

WE WON’T LET YOU!

It was so cold.

clack

clack

Aaron’s shoes clattered onto the concrete, laces trailing, tumbling over themselves as they landed on the tracks next to the platform, where the others were. He had his shoes back now. His feet wouldn’t have to be cold anymore.

But she would.

The shadows swallowed her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her skull whacked on the pavement.

What a shame.

What a shame.

What a shame.